Privation

Jordan Walters

I’m studying all the reasons why God’s mind never wanders. And I’m reading papers on pain medications that have been recently approved by the FDA. I’m getting calls from Johnson and Johnson. They want to talk. About the patients and their pain. About their relief and lack thereof. It is hard to imagine that goodness and being are really the same, differing only in name, but perhaps this is my own private delusion. Tap tap tap. On the shoulder. Yes, please, come in. Where does it hurt? I can imagine it feels like swallowing a hot glue gun: not just the stick, I’m talking the whole thing, cord and all. I’m looking forward to finding a solution, to finding a cure. I’m looking for solutions—I really am. Consider: the Maine oysters; the blood of a Horseshoe crab; the powder-blue paint on the side of the boat; the lemon-yellow dress; the deserted ball cap, left aside on the bleachers. I have another memory: I’m up in the sycamore and you’re down there on the bench. I thought I saw a man bump into you, passing you by, asking you for a cigarette. You two smoked it together. Then I saw his eyes curl once around the lush leaves of the sycamore tree as if to draw a line around everything that is not me. Was your plenty my privation? I shouldn’t ask. Anyways, what happened to you must remain secret. You can’t tell anyone about the breeze or the air or the sky downed in light brown hair. Was it a perfume from a dress that brought Lazarus back from the dead? No. That is not it at all. The raising of Lazarus has always been elusive to me. But I should stop now. I should get back on track—where we began. Our patient. Stuck in bed with bone cancer. A lemon-yellow glow coupled with a light breeze wakes him at two in the afternoon. He stands up from his bedside, feels a sharp pain in his knee. And then once again at the back of his ankle, the burn and blister of hot-melt adhesive; and this then rolls to rest underneath his toes. Tap tap tap. Two powder-blue pills on the table, on the tongue, in the mouth, washed down with the help of Adam’s apple. All bones. All cancer. Run the fingers down, tapping all twelve ribs. And then it happens all over again. Strikes the retina: the screen, the desk, the notification, the news, which reads: “While the influx of tourist dollars has been welcomed, the Dow Jones is still plunging, and Federal prosecutors have asked a judge to overturn the convictions of four men, and in a minute we will get back to—.” Look: that picture over there needs a new frame. And that man over there, with his head in his hands, looks like he’s waiting for Lazarus to rise. I wish I could tell him the truth. But perhaps the truth is not what matters—I need to check his vitals. Isn’t it good to let him be, to let him weep? Tap tap tap. On the heart. No, please, don’t go. We wept together. But not for long. I must confess that my mind is wandering yet again. I now remember: that undocumented memory beneath the lemon-yellow glow atop those forgotten hills; those Maine mermaids singing, each to each; that promise, of life, nestled inside each Horseshoe crab; that jar of powder-blue pills; that cigarette, which I saw burning from the sycamore tree, just before that man stopped to look above me; that sadness washing over you, washing over me; that sense of privation, often coupled with grief, which leads me to wonder if I’ll ever figure out why God’s mind never wanders. I’m sorry. Once again, I should get back on track. Tap tap tap. On the wrist. Still stuck in bed with bone cancer. Did I tell you that I’m studying patients with bone cancer? I’m prescribing them pain medications. Codeine, Fentanyl—available as a patch—Hydrocodone, Hydromorphone, Meperidine, Morphine, Oxycodone, Tramadol. The medication is working, working well. I’m glad my patients are doing well. I’m glad I’m doing my job. Doing well. I’m looking for solutions—I really am. Still, I really do believe that inasmuch as we exist, we are in pain. I’m still not sure how to square this with goodness and being, being really the same, what’s in a name? Isn’t it puzzling, all of it? Isn’t God puzzled, too? Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani. I can sometimes be. I want closure. Yet in the meantime, I prescribe the hot new social media app to my patients. They report feelings of activity, engagement, and a new sense of involvement. I think it does my patients a lot of good. They are really struggling, with life in general, with bone cancer, with what to have for dinner, with what they saw on TV. How many spices should they buy? A grocery store can be overwhelming. I prescribe ignoring with a podcast on the evolution of the grocery store and the causes and consequences of our economic conditions. Coca Cola, too. I’m looking for the right words. But I cannot speak. I can only weep. My patients don’t request metre or rhyme, timbre or timber, or even an inch. They want to feel free of bone cancer. Don’t you understand? The pain oscillates day-in and day-out. They all have questions. I understand. Often I do, too. But at least there’s some relief. As I said, I’m glad I have some provisional answers. Like I said: Codeine, Fentanyl—available as a patch—Hydrocodone, Hydromorphone, Meperidine, Morphine, Oxycodone, Tramadol. One second, the FDA is calling. They want to talk.